


Unspoken

by NephilimEQ



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Chatting & Messaging, Complete, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eternal Sterek, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 09:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18688906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: Stiles can't sleep. He's dealing with the fallout after Alison's death, and decides to go online and ask for some anonymous help. He finds more than he bargained for...but it also might be just the thing that he needs to start healing.





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a comment thread on the Sterek Discord group (that I am a part of) from earlier today! I got it all down in one go, and went back to do a few small edits, and voila! Here it is! Thanks to the lovely people who inspired me to write it! :)

** Unspoken **

Stiles couldn’t sleep. He was lying on his back on his bed, and it was one in the morning, rain beating heavily on the window. It was the first rainstorm that they’d had in a couple months, but it wasn’t what was keeping him awake. No, it was something else entirely.

What kept him awake was guilt.

No one ever talked about it, but since being possessed by the nogitsune, he still hadn’t been able to come to terms with everything that he’d done.

Scott had, of course, reassured him that it wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t enough. Because it _had_ been his fault. When the three of them had made the decision to open their minds to find the nemeton and taken the risk, the nogitsune had chosen him. And he knew _exactly_ why the nogitsune had chosen him, and not anyone else: because of who he really was.

It was as if it had seen all the dark thoughts that Stiles had ever had and had said to itself, _Him. He’s the only one who can do what I have planned_ , and then had slipped inside of him so effortlessly that none of them had noticed until it was too late. That… _thing_ …had used his smarts, his quick mind, to outthink and stay three steps ahead the entire time, and so now Stiles lived with the fact that he’d been weak enough to let it in and have Alison die because of it.

And that was only one of the deaths that was on his conscience.

Mr. Argent had approached him after the funeral and told him that he didn’t blame him, but Stiles wasn’t an idiot and he knew that the man didn’t look at him the same afterwards. Honestly, he had been expecting him to start following him, keeping an eye on him…but he hadn’t. He’d just absolved him and tried to move on.

But he wasn’t absolved. Far from it, actually.

All the weight of the people he’d killed lingered on his shoulders, and he didn’t know what to do about it because none of his friends would talk about what had happened.

Alison’s death lingered like a dark cloud around him, and Stiles knew that it wasn’t going away for a long time. If it ever did.

The rain beating against the window should have lulled him to sleep, the way it always had in the past, but now all it did was keep him awake, a sharp staccato that sounded like katanas. He pulled out his phone and held it above his head, the light bright, and pulled up random apps, trying to fill the time as mindlessly as he could. As he messed around, he thought about how he could fix his guilt…and then found his fingers putting the words _guilt_ , _confession_ , and _need to talk_ , and he was surprised at the first result that popped up.

It was a website where people anonymously wrote about what was bothering them and made confessions, and other people could help them by commenting and talking it out. Huh. That looked like it might help out. He pulled up the site and saw that it was separated by topics. He clicked on the one labeled Guilt.

It had everything organized by putting the most recent posts first, so he skipped over to the tenth page and read backwards over a few of them, trying to get a feel for how people talked about their problems.

It varied. Some people were vague, trying not to give too many details, only giving out a general idea of their situations, while others were explicit, going a bit into too much detail; but on every single one of them was supportive comments, people trying to help.

Feeling inspired, he pulled up the first page and clicked on the “Make A Post” button and started writing, making his handle _ss_24bhhs._

 _A friend of mine passed away recently, and I feel that it was my fault. Someone used me to make it happen and I don’t know if I can get over it. I also hurt my best friend,_ he added, thinking back to when he’d twisted the sword in his Scott’s gut, his own stomach rolling. He kept on typing. _Everyone says they forgive me, but I see the looks they give me when they think that I don’t notice. I don’t know how to move on from this and I don’t think I can. I’m not sure I even want to._

Stiles paused, glanced out his window, and then kept on typing.

_This guilt is like a disease, but it’s not a terminal one. It’s like something that I just live with and it’s becoming familiar and comfortable, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I let go of it. By letting go of it, I feel as though I am saying that I am not responsible and it’s no longer a problem, which is a lie. I don’t know who I am without the guilt. How do I get past this?_

He clicked “Post”, and it was up.

Feeling unsure of himself, he decided to read through a few more of the older posts. He was back on the seventh page when his eyes caught on one confession in particular, the handle _bhww1941_.

_My family died in a fire when I was a kid, and I’ve been carrying around the guilt of it for forever. A woman I was involved with went after them. She used me. I’ve been carrying the guilt ever since and can’t seem to shake the feeling that it was all my fault. I don’t know how to deal with it. Recently, someone else I know died, and one of my friends blames themselves for her death. Whenever I see him, I recognize the look in his eyes. I’ve seen it in the mirror every day. We’ve all told him that we don’t blame him, but I know he still blames himself. His friends are trying to pretend things are normal, but I can see that it hurts them to look at him, and he doesn’t deserve to go through this. I want to help him, but I don’t know how because if I can’t even forgive myself, then how do I convince him that he needs to forgive himself?_

That story sounded intimately familiar. But no. Derek would never go online and anonymously write down and confess his feelings. Maybe it was just coincidence.

Stiles then snorted. Yeah, right. Coincidence. Not likely.

He read a few of the pieces of advice, but most of them simply boiled down to, _Tell him that you understand. It’s okay to feel guilt, but you have to learn how to let it go. Offer to listen. Just show up when he’s alone, and don’t let him have the chance to wallow in it. Be there for him._ All of it was good advice. And it was bringing up memories from the past few weeks.

Two weeks ago, about four days after the funeral, Stiles had been sitting on the steps of the library, unable to step inside and join the study group, and he’d seen Derek out in the parking lot, leaning against his car. Their eyes had caught, and the werewolf had simply nodded at him and then gotten back into his Camaro and driven off.

Stiles had brushed it off as a random moment. It had happened a couple more times, too. Once at the sheriff’s station a few days later, and another time when he was out picking up groceries for his dad.

He glanced at the date that it had been posted. Two weeks ago. Maybe he’d written something more recently. He quickly skipped along and found another post, on the third page, by _bhww1941,_ dated four days ago.

_I’ve kept an eye on him for the past couple weeks, but I don’t know how to approach him. He’s in pain and I don’t know what to do. And it’s even more complicated than I expected it to be because I realize that my feelings for him are more than I ever realized. I can’t really say anything about what happened that lead up to his friend’s death, but while events unfolded, something inside of me shifted in how I saw him. He’s a remarkable person, stronger and smarter than anyone I know. I want to be more than a friend to him, I want to help him…but now I’m afraid that my own feelings will get in the way and I’ll end up doing more damage, instead. Any advice?_

Stiles’ finger stopped scrolling and re-read the post several times. What? Was he saying what he thought he was saying?

He wanted to be upset, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought about _he_ felt about Derek. At first, he’d just been the mean, alpha werewolf who’d taken away his best friend. And then he’d been a reluctant ally, and, finally, a sort-of friend. Also, he wasn’t _blind_. The guy was gorgeous with a chiseled jaw and abs that any guy would kill for, and when he smiled, he could have practically anyone eating out of the palm of his hand, man or woman, but Stiles had thought for the longest time that his looks were the only thing he’d had.

But then he’d gotten to know him.

And now, when he looked back on his time as a nogitsune, he saw things that he hadn’t noticed before. How Derek had hesitated when he’d first tried to attack him in his loft. How he had stood right behind him when he’d been threatened with Argent’s gun. How he hadn’t been a part of the plan to capture him and drag him back to Scott’s house.

How he’d purposely kept from trying to hurt him anymore than he had to.

Stiles jumped down to the comments and read voraciously.

 _Emotions make it harder, but it can also make it worse. If you really want to tell him, wait until after he’s had more time to process, so he doesn’t think you’re pitying him,_ read one comment, immediately followed up by a contradictory one that said, _TELL HIM, NOW!!! To know that one is loved is the one thing that can sustain a person through their grief and guilt_ , and Stiles didn’t know which one he agreed with. They were both right in their’ own ways.

He then read one that said, _Don’t tell him! It will only be harder on you when he rejects you because he thinks you’re only trying to make him feel better. Be a friend and nothing more._

There were a few others with mixed feelings and no actual advice…and then suddenly Stiles saw himself looking at the comment box, wondering if he should even dare.

Before he could change his mind, he clicked in the white comment box and put in his screenname when prompted, _ss_24bhhs_. If Derek couldn’t figure that out, then he was an idiot. Stiles had already figured out Derek’s handle. Seriously, _bhww1941_? Easy. Beacon Hills Werewolf, and the high school was established in 1941.

His fingers hovered over the keys…and then he wrote, _Tell him. Don’t waste any more time. Take a risk. You just might be surprised._

He hit send.

He swallowed.

Okay, that was done. Too late to take it back, now.

Thumbing at his phone, he saved a link to the website on his homepage, and then pulled up Angry Birds and mindlessly played for another hour, trying to keep his mind off of what he’d just done, before finally falling into a fitful sleep. When he woke up the next morning after four unsatisfying hours, bleary eyed and not nearly enough well-rested, he grumbled when he realized his alarm was going off in ten minutes. Not enough time to go back to sleep.

Complaining under his breath the whole time, he dragged himself into the shower and then threw on the cleanest clothes from his bedroom floor.

He’d stopped caring a while ago about what he looked like. Who cared?

However, just before skating out the door with a pop-tart in his mouth and his bag haphazardly hanging from his arm, his dad reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into a hug. He’d been doing that a lot recently, so Stiles just sunk into it, silently enjoying the last quick squeeze he gave him before letting him go.

The instant he got to the school, Scott caught up with him and said, “Hey. Heads up, Derek’s here and I don’t know why.”

At that, Stiles glanced back towards the parking lot and, sure enough, there he was, looking as broody as ever in his leather jacket, boots, and jeans, leaning up against his sports car in his usual way, his aviators perched on his face like a permanent fixture. Even though his eyes were hidden, he knew that he was looking at him.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something…but then quickly changed his mind about what he was going to say, and instead said, “Probably just being weird. You know him,” but Scott just shook his head as they walked into homeroom and said as they sat down, “I think it’s something else. I mean, we haven’t seen him for a few weeks,” and Stiles looked at him in surprise, his eyes going wide, but luckily his friend didn’t notice, as he’d turned to face the board, leaving Stiles to deal with the sudden realization that Derek wasn’t reaching out to anyone else.

Only him.

The school day went by in painfully slow increments, Stiles distracted in every single class as he thought about what he’d read the night before and how it affected him. He wanted to talk to Derek about it, but he wasn’t a very talkative guy, and his actions seemed to be speaking loud enough.

In the middle of chemistry, Stiles wondered if Derek had read the post and was the reason for him being at the school that morning.

He tried not to think about it but glanced out the window and was surprised when he saw Derek’s car still parked outside, Derek in the driver’s seat, staring towards the classroom. Okay, so maybe he _had_ read the post and understood…so, he decided to check his phone. Making sure that the teacher didn’t see him, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and clicked on the link that he’d saved. There was a notification on his post. But just as he went to click on it, in his distracted state, he accidentally knocked over a beaker and it splashed all over his thigh and forearm. It burned. Shit!

He hissed at the sensation and got his phone into his other pocket before he asked for help.

“Mrs. Martin?” he said, raising his hand, and her eyes snapped over to him and she immediately understood what had happened and told him to go straight to the nurse’s office.

He grabbed his books and bag and moved as quickly as he could in his pained state, praying that it hadn’t spread to his groin.

The instant he walked into the nurse’s office, she got him straight inside and told him to strip off his shirt and remove his jeans. Great. Public nudity. Just what his day needed. Doing as she asked, he stripped down and got up on the table, where she carefully wiped off the remaining solution (he wasn’t sure what it was as he hadn’t been paying attention), and then put down antiseptic and several pieces of gauze.

She then looked him over and said, “Mr. Stilinsky, I advise you to take the rest of the day off and refrain from moving. I’ll write you a note.”

Well. At least one good thing had come out of it.

As soon as she was done, he pulled on his ruined clothes (they were already partially bleached from whatever had been in the beaker) and took the note and headed back to class. He handed it to the teacher and nodded at Scott, and then texted him as he walked out of the school.

_Smthng n the beaker burned me. Got the day off. cu l8r_

Scott replied with, _Sry about the burn, but lucky!_

Stiles snorted at that, still looking down at his phone as he walked towards his car…and then ran into something solid and nearly dropped his phone but fumbled enough that he caught it and then looked up and saw what he’d walked into. Or, to be more accurate, _who_ he’d run into.

“D-Derek. Hey. Uh, what are you, what are you doing here?”

His eyebrow shot up.

Stiles rolled his eyes and adjusted his backpack and said, “Fine. Don’t tell me. Will you at least let me get to my car?”

At that, Derek shook his head, grabbed him by his shoulder and started walking him towards his Camaro, and Stiles knew that there was no point in trying to pull away. Once the wolf had made up his mind, there was no changing it, so after he’d gotten in, he waited until Derek got into the driver’s seat to ask, “Okay. Where the hell are we going?”

Derek said nothing, started the car, and peeled out of the parking lot too fast for Stiles’ taste.

They’d been driving in silence for about ten minutes, and then he couldn’t take it anymore and asked again, “Derek. Where are we going?”

Derek didn’t answer, but swallowed, made a turn off to the side of the road, and then slowed to a stop near an empty spot of road, under several large trees, and then turned off the engine. They sat there for a long time, all the while, Stiles wondering what was going on with the wolf. He was being as enigmatic as usual, but something was…off.

Finally, Derek let out a long sigh and said, “So…I was on the computer last night.”

Oh. Oh, crap. He’d read it.

Immediately, Stiles went on the defensive and stuttered out, “I, I, I was just, you know looking…looking for help--”

Derek cut him off.

“I’m taking a risk, Stiles.” He turned his head and their eyes caught. “But you know…someone said that I should,” he added lightly, his expression almost hopeful, and Stiles swallowed. Okay. So, he _had_ read the post, and he _had_ figured out that it was him. He didn’t know how to respond.

Finally, he said, “I, uh…never got the chance to read your comment on my post. Should I…should I read it now?”

Derek nodded and looked back out the windshield.

Stiles carefully got his phone out and pressed on the link. It popped up and he scrolled down to the comment, nervous about what he was about to read. He looked back up for a moment, glancing over at Derek, whose face gave away nothing, as per usual. He nervously swallowed and looked back down and started reading.

 _You don’t get over the guilt. Not really. You just learn to fit it into your life. Pretty soon, you don’t think about it as much, and you learn that there’s things that you can’t control._ Stiles paused for a moment and took a breath. Okay. So far, so good. _In the end, you make a decision to not let it take you over. And, if you can, you find someone that you can talk to. Someone who can share the pain. Someone who understands the guilt and doesn’t blame you for it. Someone you can trust._

Something wet landed on his screen and he wiped it off, only just realizing that his cheeks were wet. God, he was crying.

Derek didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him…but he reached a hand over and gently wrapped it around Stiles’ left hand and squeezed. He gripped it tightly back.

They didn’t say a word.

He turned off his phone and tucked it away one-handed, and then they sat there in silence for he didn’t know how long. It was long enough that the afternoon light waned and shadows cast themselves across the front of the car.

Taking both of them by surprise, Derek was the one to break the silence.

“I can listen. I can even understand some of it. I know I’ll never know what you went through, but you deserve to have someone on your side,” he quietly finished, squeezing Stiles’ fingers a second time. And then he said, “ _This_ …this doesn’t have to be anything. I don’t have any expectations--”

“I want this, too,” he interrupted him, immediately understanding that Derek was starting to second guess his feelings towards him, which was something that he didn’t want. “I want…I want this.” He looked up and saw Derek already staring at him. “I’ve…I’ve had thoughts. You know…before. I never took them seriously, because I figured…why bother? What’s the point if it’s something that’s never gonna happen? And then…and then I read your post.”

He stopped, swallowed, and for a moment lost himself in Derek’s eyes.

Suddenly, he didn’t know who moved first, their lips were touching, clumsily, not quite lined up, and then Derek’s other hand came up and his fingers sunk into Stiles’ hair and he gently slid their mouths together so that they fit perfectly, and Stiles knew he was crying again.

He softly kissed him, as if afraid Stiles would break, and he returned the kiss more ardently. Lips brushed over and over, and then Stiles gasped, and Derek took the hint and suddenly there was soft, wet heat and their tongues were exploring and they were both making soft, needy sounds that neither of them would ever admit to. He wasn’t sure how long they kissed, but when they pulled back, their mouths were wet, swollen, and from the soft burn on his cheeks, Stiles was certain that his chin and cheek were red from the man’s stubble.

Derek’s hand had slid down to his neck, and his thumb was absently rubbing against his jaw, causing Stiles to swallow.

He then said, “You know…you say a lot when you don’t speak.”

Derek smirked and retorted, “And you talk too much, Stilinski,” to which Stiles grinned, licked his lips, and replied, “Sounds like a perfect match, to me,” and Derek’s smirk faded to a fond smile and he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his lips and said, “Shut up, Stiles…”

Stiles grinned and leaned back in.

He was fine with that.

 


End file.
